dear god i don't even
by literalspoon
Summary: This isn't going to end well. Although, that's implying it started at all well. Which it did not. Still, I guess it started better than twenty Mariks, a forklift, and one desperate Thief King. ((For the YGO FF Contest, Season 13, Round 2. With deep, deep apologies to Citronshippers, I promise I tried. "Hubworld" AU, which is just a fancy way of saying that it's crackfic.))


Twenty Mariks.

One King of Thieves.

All crammed into a tiny forklift.

Before them, a corridor, then a roaring stadium.

"Showtime!" he finishes, then he laughs, and puts his foot down.

The engine howls in protest, his laugh becomes a scream, and they fly.

* * *

And that was a terrible place to start from. I mean, twenty Mariks, _twenty_ – and let's not even get started on the timeline problems. How could a thief raised in Egypt even know how to drive a golf cart, let alone be able to sit next to someone who was born several thousand years after he died?

The answer to both these questions is _fake._

No, really. Fake. The guy wailing in the golf cart? That was a fake. And all those Mariks were fakes, too. Real in that the audience in the stadium could have touched them, could have swept them up and kissed them (and would definitely have been arrested for doing so), but otherwise, they were all fakes. Not even clones, because that insinuated that an original had ever existed – these were pale imitations of fictional characters, who had never walked the planet to begin with.

If the narrator back there had given a toss about something other than sentence length, they would have noted that that each and every fake had a tracking chip in their right wrist. Not that this was visible, but there was definitely a small, circular scar marking them as property of The Company that the narrator could have mentioned if they were going to insist on realism. And if they'd wanted to obliterate any sense of mystery about the whole sorry situation, they would have explained that the golf cart even had a colourful logo on each side:

 **HUBWORLD – YOUR FAVES, OUR SPECIALITY!**

With all that said, just because the twenty Mariks and one King of Thieves were fakes didn't mean that they were _out of character_ , by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, had they deviated at all from the characters they were meant to represent, they would have been shot on the spot. Hubworld prided itself on realism, not diversity; that was how it made its money. Each fake was "carefully engineered and trained to be a copy of your favourites", or if you didn't believe the hype, they were mass–produced genetic abominations who were sat in front of a screen from infancy. By the bleating of the program – and the occasional use of shock collars, whippings, and detentions – these creatures were conditioned to be not humans, but Marik Ishtars or Yugi Mutous.

But what use could you have out of these? What sick entertainment? Hubworld had the answer to the latter question down to a fine art: You could run large, flashy stage shows with every series they could get the rights to. These were usually older series that had once been very popular, for after fifty or a hundred years, the copyrights had at last passed out of whatever irritating company, and had been subsequently bought by Hubworld. Next, the company would 'resurrect' the fandom in question, abusing their various positions of online authority to have re–runs and reprints of whatever series they wished to promote. This bizarre form of advertising could go on for months before the company would finally 'unveil' their latest attraction – a new character or two from that series – and the money would flow.

Though engineering individual characters was a long and expensive process, a road filled with as many failures as successes, creating multitudes of the same character was quite cheap. Once they had their process for Yugi or Jounouchi or _whoever_ perfected, they could just rinse and repeat. The company could, in this way, make as many fakes as were needed to sate the crowds – and so, Yugi vs Kaiba played out in six theatres simultaneously, whilst Jounouchi Potter fought Naruto Malfoy in the brand new, must–see, must–review installment of _Dueling Wizards Ninja Theatre._

As the latter two–thirds of that sentence might suggest, the company was beginning to slip around the time of the Golf Cart Incident. Hubworld didn't think it possible, but the impossible had clearly occurred after twenty long, dull/short, exciting years: People were getting sick of seeing Yugi vs Marik or Yugi vs Jounouchi. For a time, they danced around the core issue that people were bored with their _huge_ selection of ten unique fake characters, because again, making new fakes was expensive, and advertising a new series so many months in advance even more so. They added more pyrotechnics, more props, even tried to use the oldest, most popular fanfictions available as 'inspiration' for further shows.

But the fact remains that anything called _Dueling Wizards Ninja Theatre_ is unlikely to get your entertainment park much respect, even if it does have a cool fireworks show. And so, Hubworld was forced to make new characters. However, as is the nature of large companies with hungry shareholders, they cut a very important corner: Rather than making more main characters from some new series, they decided to stick with their established fanbases and make minor characters for these. The company's designers had already studied them when they were putting together footage of the major characters, and so less work as required as opposed to attempting a completely unknown character.

And that is the story of how Thief King Bakura came into this world.

* * *

Which, come to think of it, was _also_ a terrible place to start from. So much exposition, so little action – I'm not very good at this whole story thing, am I?

Let me try again.

It's class 22–B's first day of training away from the screens. This is where they will learn to hold themselves as their characters, instead of slumping as they were allowed to do for the vast majority of their lives. This is where they'll learn to perfectly imitate their characters' voices for whatever play the organization has in mind for them, adding the correct inflections and tones instead of just parroting what they've already heard from the screens. Teaching them all such skills is expensive, certainly – but it saves Hubworld money and time when a fake doesn't need to be told during script–readings how to say things with 'anger', 'pride', or 'sparkles'.

Twenty Mariks – ranging in age from four months to nine months, though their appearance is more like a teenager's – lounge about a classroom bare and grey, featuring little aside from chairs, desks, and a blackboard. Some of the Mariks are eyeing the lone Yugi with greed, others fixing their attention on the three Anzus. One even appears to be writing an ill–fated love letter, too young a fake to understand that he'll always be refused for as long as the girl stays true to her programming. Anzu fakes aren't exactly known for _cheating_ , after all; the original character was almost mindless in her loyalty to Yugi, and that's something that has been ingrained into her imitations.

Another Marik holds his teddy bear close, rocks back and forth on his chair. His character has been utterly addled, following a close encounter with a Bakura. It was only a Ryou, thankfully, who just wanted to say hello and didn't realize he was triggering a deep–rooted fear, but it could have been so, so much worse. There's a very good reason why the Yami Bakuras are kept in a ward at the opposite end of the training complex from the Mariks. As near–perfect as the fakes are, there's something about the Bakuras (or is that Bakurae?) that brings out the worst in both characters. Or at least, it's something that makes the poor Egyptian shiver and shake, whilst the Yami Bakura in question (or on occasion, a Ryou) advances, a snarl on his face and a hungry gleam in his eye. Keep them together too long, and assuming that the initial dominance scrabble doesn't result in a death, Marik will follow no orders bar those of his new master, whilst the Yami Bakura will do nothing but what he pleases.

This bizarre behaviour has been theorized to have something to do with the fact that most of the canon footage shown to the fake Mariks contains a canon Yami Bakura, who becomes this sort of rather bullying partner–in–crime. At any rate, therapy is nearly always needed for the affected Marik in question. Sadly, there is only a twenty–nine percent chance of a successful recovery, with disposal required in the majority of cases, and so the best method of lowering the risk is to simply make sure Mariks and Yami Bakuras never meet. Interactions with Ryous are also quite limited; they are not allowed within a ten–metre radius of any given Marik, for fear that it might trigger the disorder.

But we are getting off track. In the interests of not drifting back into ludicrous amounts of exposition, let's say that something happens in the story. Namely, the single door in the room opens, and in struts the teacher. She's a tall lady, rumored to have a bit of an escaped faux–Kaiba in her genepool; whatever the truth, the class is suitably intimidated by her mere appearance. The Mariks all sit bolt upright in a manner more like startled meerkats than the humans they're supposed to look like, and the lone Yugi shuffles uneasily in his seat, whilst the Anzus get out pencil–cases in near–perfect sync.

Following the teacher is a stranger with long silver hair, a scar over one eye, and a rather sulky look on his face. The Yugi and Anzus cringe back, since they've seen a small amount of footage in which their characters reacted to this guy, but the Mariks all crane their necks to see the new arrival, as curious as ever. Though the shock collar marks him out as one of them, and his silver hair is a little like the dreaded Bakurae, his design is otherwise very different. His skin is darker, much like a Marik's, but he doesn't wear the latest in 90's fashion trends – just a plain white jumpsuit.

Of course, he's probably just some very minor character, seen in some silly flashback of someone's. But standing there with his arms folded, the newcomer seems to be almost… _intimidating_. Despite how low a position he must be in if he's a fake – which he is, just look at that shock collar, he's been a _very_ bad fake – he still keeps his head up, standing as straight and as confident as the teacher next to him. He must be one of those new–fangled minor characters, the Mariks agree amongst themselves, but it _feels_ like he's a leader, in a funny sort of way. He's a symbol, some sort of icon – a figurehead, that each and every Ishtar in the room feels an odd tugging towards, even though they've never seen anyone like this before, in any of their canon material.

"Now, class. This is the King of Thieves. He's a brand–new minor character from your series, and for today, we are going to be trialing him with our Mariks. We have a new script from a shipfic, in which he will get quite close with Marik, and wanted to test the viability of this notion. Isn't that exciting?"

The above question's been asked with about as much excitement as a bowl of stone–cold oatmeal. The Anzus nod as enthusiastically as they dare, and the Yugi mumbles "Yes, miss", but the Mariks, true to their character, don't even respond. They just stare at the newcomer, just as the fictional Marik would have done, trying to appraise him. This tactic would probably have been fine if they had been meeting a Jounouchi for the first time, and it could also have worked if only there had been one Marik staring agog. But unfortunately, there are _twenty_ , all doing the same thing for once, a very unusual moment of unity. As the King isn't into being stared at by that many people, his lip soon curls, and he snaps at the veritable crowd of spectators:

"What're _you_ looking at?"

The Mariks don't know how to reply – none of them have been trained in how to interact with this character – so they shy back, muttering amongst themselves. Confusion is written all over their faces, and some of the older, slightly more intelligent ones are trying to voice what's wrong with the King's response – stuff like "How did he know what to say?", "Was that part of a script? How come _we_ don't know about it?" and "Wait, do we even know him? Did we forget about it?".

It takes several noisy throat–clearings from the teacher to get the Mariks paying attention again, and it only works because she's ever so intimidating. Apparently, that's not enough for the newcomer to obey – he's still oozing disdain and malice, slouching against the wall. It's a clear challenge to the teacher's leadership, and it takes several sparks dancing across his collar – combined with a mumbled threat from his instructor – before he bothers stalking off to sit in the back row (currently consisting of Marik, Marik, Marik, an empty desk, and Marik).

Still, the mere fact that he tried to challenge, that he didn't obey _straight away_ is curious to say the least. The Mariks are naturally/artificially very curious about this, and one by one, each steals a glance at the apparently independent fake. The King continues to sulk at his desk, but whenever a Marik looks at him, he's sure to glare until the fake in question looks away with something bordering on respect, something bordering on fear, a deep, deep worry deep in its chest, a twist in the gut. No Marik knows _why_ , but the King is fast becoming a mighty leader – one they'll each serve, one already almost more powerful a figure than the teacher.

But nothing happens, no amazing act of rebellion, and definitely no golf–carts. That's days away, making this whole passage complete and utter – _yeeeeeeaaaah_ , it's yet another terrible starting point. Look, I'll tell you how this one ends: Eventually, after a long day of trying to recite various passages of the play he's supposed to star in, the bell for the end of a long day sounds, and the King walks out, a long line of Mariks trailing behind him like ducklings.

As for us, we have another try.

* * *

Now it's a few days later, and tensions are high – which is exactly the sort of thing you should never say out loud, because it would make zero sense, but this is writing so _who cares_. What's much more important than phrasing choices this fine morning is the fact that the Yugi has vanished, the third non–Marik fake to disappear from the classroom in as many days. Not that it's much of a problem for the company – fakes are cheap as far as Hubworld's concerned – but with the loss comes a tilt in the classroom's uneasy balance. Things are leaning even further in favour of the hive–mind and its cocksure leader, and what might happen when the last remaining Anzu 'leaves', for lack of a better word, makes the teacher shiver.

She knows that technically, the only fake with any semblance of free will should be the King – but when she speaks, her class isn't quiet any longer. The Anzu sits with her hands folded in her lap, but the older Mariks are starting to talk of their own accord; meanwhile, the King puts his feet up on the desk in front of him, eyeing the teacher with the lazy eye of a lion advancing on a half–dead gazelle.

Something's wrong here, _very_ wrong, and she almost considers filing a report, but – no. The King might be a little dangerous, but that's why he has the shock collar. The Mariks will do whatever she says, _regardless_ of some stupid minor character's influence upon them – they've not been trained to respond to the King, so why should they be swayed by him? Bakuras, of course, you should always keep them away from Ishtars, but – this minor character is hardly a Bakura. Just some guy from some long–forgotten fan fiction that the company's trying to revive. She's read the latest edit of it, and the thing's barely a _joke -_ just some overly long kissing sequence between the thief and a Marik. She doesn't understand why on earth or under it such a thing would be worth a paid show, but who is she to question it?

To show her disdain, she turns her back on the class. Which is, naturally, when the anarchy begins.

It starts with a lone shot, a spitball down the back of the instructor's neck. Of course, she whirls, remote in hand, ready to shock the bejeebus out of that filthy thief, but then there's a scream, and the whole situation's completely out of control. For whatever bizarre reason, the Mariks are lurching forwards in their usual uncoordinated way, and they ones closest to the lone Anzu are ripping and pulling at her like wild animals, knocking over desks and tripping over each other in their haste to claim her for themselves. Off to the side of the conflict, several more Mariks appear to be _stripping_ , pulling off their shirts with expressions hopeful enough to make the instructor's stomach churn.

The girl screams a second time, and the teacher decides that the Ishtar situation is by far more pressing than the spitball situation. She pulls her taser from where it sits holstered at her hip, and lunges into the fray, electricity dancing about her fingers, then about the Mariks as she wields it. The fakes go down screaming left and right, she feels oh–so–powerful, even though they're all trying to drag her with them. She's far outclassed them in terms of weapons; there's a _click,_ and then a spark whirls about–

–her own neck?

The King rises, stands atop the one non–toppled desk

"No…"

and makes a slashing motion right across

"…no…"

his bare, pale, uncollared throat

"…nonono–"

points a stolen remote

"–nononononono–"

and the sparks

"–nononononononoooooo"

 _fly_

 _"gwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA–"_

 _._

* * *

And with that, we've officially lost the protagonist.

Not that the teacher was much of a protagonist, not that anyone really understood who she was, or got to know her character. But – well, she was the most important character, right? The one with the most authority, at least. And like a fanfiction that's really jumped the shark, she's _gone_ , leaving behind twenty Mariks, an unconscious Anzu, and one King of Thieves, none of whom are the real deal.

The King's the most important of those, or at least the one with the most power over the situation, so let's focus on him. This is a fake _too_ good, that's the first thing that should be said – far too skilled at thievery, a Yami Bakura with useful abilities. As he's put it himself, cooed as he watched the Yami Bakuras rage about how he can get out of his cage as easily as a stone sinks through water, unless it's pumice, but we're not here to talk about the outliers, where the hell is this sentence even goi– ah, forget it. The King has said once that he was like a Yami Bakura but _better_ , and though admittedly that was probably said just to make the yowling masses yowl louder, it's kind of true. He's skilled, and to make matters worse for the company he's grown to hate, he's _independent_. And the King's gotten away with that, hasn't been shot yet, because just like the character he's studied, the fake has been careful to mask free will with mere laziness, waiting for the perfect moment.

That moment's passed, so now he's striding out the door with all the Mariks in tow, looking for the next glorious few seconds. Part of this is bizarre – normally, it'd be hard for any instructor to pry a determined Marik from an Anzu, let alone twenty in assorted states of undress, several holding love letters, one clutching a plastic Christmas–cracker ring, and the smallest attempting to offer the poor, swooned girl his precious teddy bear. But a flick of the King's wrist is all that's needed for every last fake to follow him out the door, scooping up most of their clothes and arguing with each other as they try to figure out which near–identical shirt belongs to whom.

The Bakurae Factor's strong here, understandably so given that the King's technically a Bakurae in his own right, known as Thief King Bakura for a _reason_ – though it's probably got more to do with the events of the last few nights. During these, the King, having escaped yet again from his night–time cell, handed out stolen sweets to the Mariks, earning their loyalty in the process. This would have been a very exciting thing to write about, and would most definitely have gotten itself a place the narration, but the problem with any fake is that they're awfully predictable. The candy was exactly the same for each Marik, handed through exactly the same place in the bars, then repeated a further nineteen times, and no words were ever exchanged – the King had nothing to say, and the Mariks never any idea what to do in the situation.

It was very boring stuff, a subplot doomed for certain, but you know what's far more exciting? ((Haha! This paragraph almost _flows_ from the previous one! I'm getting better, see?)) Well, allow me to tell you, since you're clearly so very excited, dearest readerokayI'llstopthatnow: The King's crowning achievement, pun intended. This came well before the honeyed words and threats, and it's now something he's looking to get rid of, pacing down the hallway to ask each Marik in turn:

"The script. About me, about you. It's the whole reason I even got a class with you guys… So, where'd it go?"

"Sorry. I did memorize it, though?" With this, they shake their heads, and the King grits his teeth a little more with each identical response. He _has_ to get rid of that script. It's been his master plan, months in the writing, but it's now exactly what he needs to destroy before it's too late, before the censored version of his work gets performed by some other Marik and Thief King Bakura, completely ruining the rebel's reputation in the process. Oh, writing a fanfiction in which he made out passionately with twenty Mariks at once _seemed_ like a good idea, and the tenacity and ridiculousness of the work certainly got him his dream placement, a real king amongst his subjects.

But as far as he knows, which is what the Mariks have parroted from time to time, his magnificent work has been censored to pieces by the company. It was once passionate, twisted stuff, based off a desire almost real, and a piece overall calculated to bring down Hubworld by virtue of being so very... raw, for lack of a better word. However, the King wasn't counting on the editors, and going off what he's heard of the Mariks' rehearsals so far in class, his mighty work has become a laughing stock, graffiti all over his masterpiece. If this edition is performed, Hubworld will likely _profit_ , and even if he escapes now – if Real People ever see him, they'll know his identity immediately, have him captured and taken straight back to this horrible place.

This realization was exactly why he had to act after just a few days' worth of bribing the Mariks. He's become desperate to escape, desperate to see the place go _down_ , and that desperation shows now, his voice rough with frustration as he reaches the end of the line.

"Come on!"

He charges down the corridor, running and running, determined to at least _escape_ this horrible place where very few people are at all humans. The sound of all those fakes rushing after him gives The King some comfort, lets him relax a little. It's a dull thrumming that fills his ears, makes the walls shake, makes stray Jonouchis and Hondas shriek and leap back into their classrooms as they thunder by.

"Stop!" roars an Ushio as they round the corner, a brute of a fake finely trained in taking down escapees. He cracks his knuckles as the stampede approaches, but the King grins in the face of such a menace, ducking back and allowing the Mariks to do their work. They do, and do it well, sweeping the security guard off his feet and carrying him along on their shoulders, even though they're complaining loudly about his weight the whole time. That gives their leader time to take in his surroundings, jogging at the back of the group – there's a forklift up ahead, and beyond that, a stadium, a crowd, a Thief King Bakura and a Marik walking towards each other out there – and last but definitely not least, a wicked, _wicked_ plan.

A stadium, a crowd – the stage is right there, isn't it? And if this show is what the King thinks it might be, he has to stop it, right now; or better still, barge straight in with the true, raunchy piece that'll get the place shut down in a matter of weeks. His shirt's off in a matter of seconds, and though the original featured a burgundy couch, the forklift's still an object that can be lain upon – it'll have to do.

"Get on the forklift!", the King all but screams, leaping into the driver's seat and dragging as many Mariks as physically possible with him, cramming them into the passenger seat, sitting the smallest on his lap and the second smallest on his feet, the rest hanging off the sides and back of the vehicle. The light of the stadium beckons, bright and inviting - his hope, their futures, their _fates_ all rest on this moment. "And soon as we're onstage, just do everything I tell you! You two, get on the lifter end – shirts off, arms out, go like this – ah shit, the show's starting!" Sure enough, the music's starting up, a wonky crescendo, a poorly-played love song on a recorder, the audience laughing, about to witness the butchering of all the King's hard work.

"Showtime!", he howls over it.

And if the place stands after this -

\- if they're captured after this -

\- they all know they'll be shot.

But for the Thief King, it's worth it.

And for all those Mariks, _he's_ worth it.

He puts his foot down, he laughs

he screams, engines scream, Mariks scream

and the audience screams for blood

and they _fly._


End file.
